


Scythes & Wings

by LastAstronaut



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Islamic References, M/M, Some canonical spoilers, alcohol use, nick!lucifer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 18:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11468976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastAstronaut/pseuds/LastAstronaut
Summary: Dean seethes with irritation. “I’m sorry but who exactly are you?”“Azrael,” she repeats. “Malak al-Maut.”“She’s the Angel of Death,” Castiel clarifies then ignores the responding hisses of “what?” and “excuse me?” from the other two hunters.**This is a WIP that is slow to update**





	1. Tha'lj

**Author's Note:**

> I grew up Muslim (non-practicing now) and as a guilty lover of this show I’ve always been curious about what the Supernatural world would look like with Islamic references. I’ve also been wanting to play with the soulmates trope and boom, here we are. This diverts from canon but still has mentions to canonical spoilers up to season 12 so be warned! 
> 
> At first this was just porn and then I accidentally plotted and intrigued myself. I’m not really sure where I’m going with this! I’ll make sure to keep appropriate tags updated as I jump down this rabbit hole.
> 
> Smut for this chapter: Lucifer/Azrael, grace shenanigans, rimming

Castiel hears it moments before Sam or Dean feel it.

“Cas?” Dean asks in alarm when the bunker floors shake violently. Sam tries to catch his mug before it rattles off the edge of the dining room table but it shatters at the same time as Dean’s tumbler of whiskey. Castiel leans toward a flood of whispers that translate to high pitched shrieks in human ears. They flinch at the flickering lights, anticipating the overhead bulbs to burst next. “It’s an archangel,” he says with wide eyes, realizing the Winchesters couldn’t hear.

When a calm finally flows through the room, they trade expressions of relief and confusion. It’s Castiel who first sees the figure standing at the end of the dinning room table; a woman whose deep russet eyes bore into his. Dean pulls the Colt out from underneath the table and cocks it while Sam pushes away from his seat with a knife readied in his grip. Dean’s voice barks, “Who the fuck are you?”

The woman slowly raises her hands out of her coat pockets in surrender. “Easy,” she singsongs. “I’m not here to fight.”

“Dean, she’s an archangel.”

Dean quickly glances sideways. “Which one, Cas?” He barely spits out, keeping his aim steady.

“One you haven’t met yet,” she answers. Her hands slowly lower and their weapons mirror the movement, causing them to struggle against her control. “Please, just listen to what I have to say and then I’ll leave you be.”

Using her grace she drags the toppled chairs toward them and forces them to sit. A warmth rushes through their bodies, muscles relaxing despite their senses burning hot. Dean opens his mouth to demand answers, but panics at the lack of sound. Castiel stands unaffected.

“My name is Azrael.” Her voice pours into their ears as if she’s standing next to them. “We’ve never actually spoken but I keep an eye on you. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…” she chuckles, “I’m a pretty big fan for the most part.”

Dean’s eyes roll upward to Castiel, who stares fixedly at her. “Cas?” His voice barely squeezes out.

“That’s not possible,” the angel responds, “That’s an old myth that predates Heaven itself.”

“That’s how I want it to be but you’ve been making it very difficult for me to stay in the shadows.”

She returns the brothers their voices and Dean’s seethes with irritation, “I’m sorry but _who_ exactly are you?”

“Azrael,” she repeats. “Malak al-Maut.”

“Wh… what is that, Enochian?”

“Arabic,” she deadpans.

“She’s the Angel of Death,” Castiel clarifies then ignores the responding hisses of “what?” and “excuse me?” from the other two.

“I really shouldn’t be on Earth right now but you’ve left me no choice. You keep killing my reapers.” She circles one of her fingers in the air and takes a seat, propping thick high-heeled boots over the dining table’s edge. A glass of red wine materializes within her reach while a coffee and whiskey for Sam and Dean appear within theirs.

“Reapers?” Sam asks, watching her sip wine. He studies her vessel; a woman of color, with soft black waves brushing the top of her shoulders and tawny beige skin. Her sunken cheekbones are reminiscent of the pale horseman, and her large eyes feel like they can burn a hole through their souls. Despite her vessel appearing significantly younger than Death’s, she seems just as tired, or maybe indifferent.

She points at Dean, “Tessa wasn’t exactly your fault, I’ll give you that.” Her eyes drift to the glass in her hand. “But then you killed my horseman and… I have to admit I was pretty pissed. He was even starting to like you boys.”

Dean winces at that.

Azrael sighs. “I eventually got over it, just like all the other astronomical disruptions you’ve caused.” Her glare meets a puzzled Castiel. “And then you just had to kill Billie. I had plans for her, Castiel.”

Castiel opens his mouth to explain but Dean interrupts with venom, “Death himself told me that he would be the one to reap God. _God_. He’s never mentioned you, sweetheart. So where the fuck have you been?”

“Keeping the natural order in tact. Unlike you, I give a shit about the galactic consequences of my actions.” Azrael’s sharp tone quiets the eldest Winchester. He huffs internally and dares a sip of the angel mojo’d whiskey in front of him. _If the Angel of Death wanted me dead she wouldn’t wait for a drink to finish the job, he thinks_. “Death may have been the oldest and most powerful reaper in charge but he just followed orders like all of us.” Her lashes flutter to Castiel. “Most of us,” she corrects with a wink.

“What are you hiding from?” Sam asks.

She arches an eyebrow at the younger Winchester.

He visibly swallows and presses on, careful about his word choice. “I mean, you said you’re staying in the shadows and it seems like you don’t actually want people to believe you’re real. Why?”

Azrael snorts. “If I tell a Winchester why I shouldn’t be here then that curses me into a lifetime of being here. You two have a way of making what shouldn’t be possible _possible_ , and I don’t mean that in a first-person-on-the-Moon way but in a massive-apocalyptic-bullshit way. Truth be told, I should be hiding from you.”

Sam’s face screws up in confusion as Dean’s jaw sets in impatience.

“What is it you want?” Castiel asks.

Azrael downs the rest of her wine and stands, smoothing slender hands over her black overcoat. Her voice is precise, meeting each of their eyes, “Please refrain from killing more of my reapers.” Her expression then softens with a small smile. “Let’s hope for your sake that we don’t meet again.”

***

Sam pours himself another cup of coffee with one hand while gently pulling on the top of his head to stretch his neck with the other. He grunts in response to the low _crack_. He turns to walk back to the large desk where he studied, and stops in his tracks. The books and scrolls that were littered across the tabletop are gone. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Gabriel,” he sighs, “I don’t have time for this tonight, okay?”

Fingertips dance across the nape of his neck and he shudders, his jaw clenching in attempt to suppress a smile.

“Gabe,” Sam’s voice warns.

“You’re no fun,” the archangel breathes behind the hunter’s ear. When Sam opens his eyes, the lore had returned to the desk and Gabriel sits in a chair next to where Sam had been seated. “Light reading before bedtime?” He asks, browsing the cover of a dusty journal. “You know you should sleep eventually, right? You’re much cuter with bedhead.”

Sam settles back down in his chair. “Not until we figure out what’s going on. In fact, we could probably use your help.”

Gabriel’s face lights up smugly, much to Sam’s chagrin. He’s about to respond when Dean’s booming voice cuts in.

“Oh goody!” Dean enters the room, beer in hand. He forces a smile at Gabriel and turns to look at Sam, the corner of his eyes crinkling. “Remind me to ward the bunker in case more friggin’ angels decide to show up tonight.”

“You’re lucky that I like your brother too much to smite you where you stand.” The archangel smirks, then meets the eyes of Castiel who leans against the door frame. A quiet acknowledgment forms between them.

“Like I was saying,” Sam clears his throat. “Azrael was here.”

The archangel’s eyes are on his in an instant. “What did you say?”

Castiel responds, “Azrael. How long have you known about her?”

Gabriel leans back in his chair. “I didn’t… at least, not really. There are mentions of her name in Islamic texts but no one in Heaven had ever seen or met her. I always felt it was true but,” he pauses to shake his head to himself, “I’ve never been able to find her.”

“Well what do you know about her?” Dean gruffly asks.

“Dad didn’t like talking about it, surprise surprise. He’d get all pissy when Michael confronted him about the rumors spreading in Heaven.”

“What rumors?”

The archangel bitterly chuckles. “Dad always loved his metaphors and tragedies even the ones that are a touch on the nose. Old stories say that Azrael was given a soulmate before she hid from everyone. Not even capital-H He could find her.”

Dean throws his head back and groans, “Jesus the melodrama with all you friggin’ angels is worse than a soap opera. So what’s a soulmate got to do with any of this?”

“Well, when angels find their mates, they form an extremely profound bond.” He blinks at Sam who tries to hide a grin. Dean mutters something about the two getting a room and Gabriel snorts. “Okay like you’re one to talk,” he retorts while nodding suggestively to a clueless Castiel.

Dean clears his throat and brings the beer to his lips to hide the blush warming his cheeks. “Okay enough dicking around, just… get to it.” He swigs, avoiding the archangel’s shit eating grin.

“No one’s been able to find out for sure but Azrael’s alleged soulmate… is Lucifer.”

“Lucifer?” Sam repeats with a wrinkled nose. “But why would God do that? Doesn’t that bond Lucifer to a superweapon?”

“More like bond him to the only thing capable of killing him.” He revels in their attention at that. “It was another one of dad’s punishments, bonding Luci’s soul to a mate destined to destroy him and one that he can’t kill.” Gabriel balks when his hints don’t register in their thoughts, like the answer was sitting directly in front of them. “You know, her being the _Angel of Death_ and all that. It’d be pretty awkward if she died.”

“We killed Death,” Dean shrugs, ignoring the pang of guilt in his gut.

“You killed a horseman, genius. Azrael is the embodiment of the natural order.” Gabriel’s eyes narrow at Dean not taking him seriously. “If you kill her, you won’t be able to kill anything again. You remember you’re a hunter, right?”

Sam thinks aloud, “She told us that she shouldn’t have been on Earth. Maybe she doesn’t want Lucifer to find her…” He trails off, then an idea hits. He quickly straightens in his chair. “Wait, maybe this is a good thing. If she doesn’t want Lucifer to find her, maybe she’ll help us throw him back in the cage. Or shit, even put him down for good. If she’s the only thing that can kill Satan we have to at least try.”

The two angels look at each other and Castiel responds after a beat, “This might be worth a shot if Lucifer doesn’t find her first. We’ll need to work fast.”

“Well that settles it. Let’s find out how to summon the Angel of Death and pray she doesn’t kill us all.” Dean toasts the air with his beer bottle. _We’re so fucked_ , he thinks with a tight smile before chugging the rest of his drink.

***

Azrael’s cabin is indeed isolated. She lives on a different planet - one that would destroy her vessel if her grace didn’t occupy it. A planet that she’s heard humans call “Pluto.” She pulls back the curtain in the den to stare out the window, gazing at the planes of black ice that stretch into a gray fog. A chill suddenly jerks through her and she sucks in a small gasp. Her chest tightens at the sound of fluttering wings. _Shit_ , she snipes under her breath and quietly berates herself for taking the risk to visit Earth; Lucifer was able to sense her and track her down.

“Out of all the corners of the universe, you chose a misfit frozen planet.” His honeyed voice fills the room as he approaches her. “Are you trying to tell me something, dear?”

She slowly turns to face him, feeling her grace ache to close the distance between them. Lucifer reaches out to run his thumb along her jawline. His fingertips barely meet the side of her neck when her veins emanate a deep red glow matching the red emitting from his eyes, and then fade. Azrael allows herself to lean into his touch for a moment, basking in the rush of their bond, before she grabs his wrist and and pushes it away.

His vessel’s electric blue eyes flicker with hurt and her posture stiffens. She slightly tilts her chin up, defiant. “You’re making a big mistake, Lucifer. We both know how this ends.”

For a monster prone to outbursts, Lucifer’s voice remains low and drapes over her like velvet. “Azzy,” the nickname rolls off his tongue like they’ve known each other for millennia. She feels like she’s known him forever, and her brows knit together in confusion. He tucks loose strands of hair behind her ear. “I’m not here to hurt you. You have no idea how much I’ve obsessed over this moment. We’ve both been rejected, forced apart, and for what? Unending cycles of human populations obliterating each other and destroying their planet?”

She splays her hand on his chest and takes a step back, wanting to push him but stopping herself. “I wasn’t rejected, I _chose_ exile.”

“Oh, that’s right. An eternal lifetime of loneliness,” he broods. His cold fingers cover hers and pin them against his sternum. “It must be so empty-”

“Stop it, Lucifer.” She snaps with a curt voice, “I’m not a human you can tempt or manipulate.”

He lets out a gentle sigh. “Of course you aren’t, Azrael. I know exactly what you are, what _we_ are. I know you might not want to believe it, but I’m not trying to tempt you.” He inches closer, “You feel how deeply we’re connected, don’t you?”

Her lips twitch. If his eyes hadn’t already lowered to outline the shape of her mouth, he would have missed the movement.

“Michael is dead. The Darkness is gone and my father disappeared. Hell and Heaven are infested with opportunistic, cowardly traitors. But, what you and I have… that can’t be killed or cast out.” He guides her closer to him and dips his head down for their foreheads to touch. She takes a deep, quiet breath and closes her eyes. “Come with me, and the universe will be ours.”

The words slap her, like God was reminding her of her duty. Azrael can feel her wings angrily stretch out, their shadows flaring above Lucifer’s tucked feathers. The copper streaks in her brown eyes flash red while fingernails claw through his shirt to pierce the skin underneath. Lucifer lowers his eyes to her grip and then drags them back up, heart thudding in his ears.

“If you still want to kill me,” he whispers, watching her jaw set and stare harden, “then do it.”

Her lips part and she scrunches the material of his shirt. She pulls him down, balancing on the tip of her toes to crash their lips together. Lucifer melts into her and grips her hip with one hand while guiding the other up her back, purring into the kiss as their mouths hungrily move. She uses the fist twisted in his shirt to move him back toward the couch. When the back of his knees hit it, he sits back to watch her straddle his lap, not letting go of the hold on her hips.

Their grace hums, making each stroke and sigh and grunt more intoxicating than the last. Their tongues meet when her hips grind down against his, both letting out sinful moans. Azrael runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the sandy blond roots to tilt his head back. She peers down at his flushed cheeks and swollen lips, smirking as she slows the movement of her hips to relish the feel of his stiffening cock. He tenses under her, digging his fingertips harder into her hips. “You’re mine,” she growls in Enochian.

Lucifer’s breath catches in his throat when her tongue drags along his bottom lip. “Oh sweetheart,” he murmurs. He takes advantage of the hold in his hair loosening, swiftly lifting her up to switch their positions. It’s an uncoordinated fumble at first, making her squeal in surprise. She lets out a soft giggle when her back bounces off the couch. His heart beats so hard he’s afraid she can hear it when he grabs her jaw and repeats in Enochian, “You’re _mine_.”

He leans in to kiss her again, slowly. He can feel the tips of her primary feathers graze the back of his neck. Lucifer and Azrael aren’t strangers to the how-to’s of fucking or human anatomy, but it’s an experience they haven’t had with a mate. Isolation from the world made them bitter over time, distrustful of all creatures and cynical about bodily urges. Their senses dizzy with new feelings as they explore each other’s vessels.

They strip away pesky clothing, rushing and heated until they’re bare and kissing deeply. Azrael curls her hands around his biceps and Lucifer’s palms settle on her waist as he trails open-mouth kisses down her throat. He cups her full breasts, pinching a brown nipple with one hand and circling the tip of his tongue around the other. She shivers and attempts to hold back a moan, failing when his teeth playfully bite down.

Her fingers are back in his hair when his lips move lower and lower to the short curls between her thighs. He sinks to his knees, eyes smouldering into hers as his palms spread her thighs further. She jolts when his tongue gently teases at her and lets out a shaky breath. She digs into his scalp, drawing him closer to her cunt. A groan vibrates in his chest and he closes his eyes, focusing his tongue on experimental laps across her folds and around her clit. Azrael rubs her pussy against his wet tongue, whimpering out pleas. “Luce,” she whines when he uses his grace to mimic the feeling of hands sliding up her torso to pinch her nipples.

Lucifer sinks his short nails into her thighs as he quickly licks her clit, desperate to keep hearing her mewls. His grace mirrors his tongue’s movement on her nipples until her thighs shake. She throws her head back and keens when she comes, pushing her hips up against his eager mouth. He hums in encouragement as he sucks her clit, watching her high crash into a string of incoherent words. Azrael tugs his hair away from her oversensitive sex, whimpering when he pulls off with an obscene _pop_.

He licks around her labia, drowning in each sharp inhale and shudder. He lowers his mouth to the pool of wet formed beneath her cunt and slides his tongue against her tighter hole. A strangled “oh!” startles out of her and she tenses for a second before breathing out a moan. He pulls away and his wet lips stretch into a dazed smile, chin glistening. “We’ll have to try that later,” his voice teases.

She lets out a trembling laugh, breath still calming from her orgasm. He stalks up her body and nuzzles his nose against hers. Their lips barely brush together and she flicks her tongue on his mouth. He kisses her hard then, teasing her with her own taste. Lucifer’s cock rubs against her mons and her breath catches. Their foreheads press together and Azrael’s rakes the base of his wings with her nails, drawing out a hiss from the fallen archangel. She moans crassly in Enochian, “ _Fuck_ me, Lucifer. 

He’s drunk off her voice and knows their encounter would end too soon if he kept grinding against her. Lucifer lines his cock and inches in, grunting at the sudden warmth and tightness. They both suck in sharp breaths when he bottoms out in a swift motion. She whimpers and clenches around him, causing him to still for a second. Then two.

Azrael grasps his jaw, her fingers feeling the light scruff as she runs her thumb across his lower lip. She pulls her hips slightly away from his then rocks back, biting her lip when he moans and mirrors her action. Their rhythm is inelegant and unfamiliar until Lucifer steadies her hips and moves with purpose, fucking her into the couch. She tilts her hips into his tight hold and cries out, gripping his shoulder with one hand and the couch’s fabric with the other.

He pulls out, smirking at the impatient sound she lets out. “Turn around,” he says, voice thick with lust. She quickly complies and he rumbles appreciatively at the sight of her ass pushing up for him, waiting. He thinks to himself that next time he’ll tease her until she’s begging to be fucked, but now he pushes into her shamelessly. When he fucks her from this angle an overwhelming pressure floods through her cunt and she pushes back hard against him. The noises pouring from her buzz in his ears. Lucifer claws and kneads the generous curve of her behind, spreading her cheeks apart to expose the wet puckered hole. Azrael gasps at the cold sensation of his grace rolling against her asshole and then lets out a wail, flushing in embarrassment at the unexpected high pitch of her voice.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she hears him groan out behind her as his hips move faster and harder. The grace flicking her rim slowly probes, barely adding more pressure. She feels a familiar pulse through her lower stomach when she comes a second time around his cock, mouth dropped open in a voiceless scream. Lucifer drops his head to her shoulder, growling when he sinks his teeth into her skin. She reaches behind to grab a fistful of his hair, pushing herself back to ride out her orgasm against his thrusts. His rhythm falters as he comes and fills her, letting go of the bite and grunting hard against the mark he left.

Their movements eventually slow to a halt and he pulls out, kissing the nape of her neck until their breaths even. Lucifer sighs when Azrael turns to kiss his lips chastely, and his wings instinctively wrap around hers. He holds her to his chest and presses his lips on the top of her head. Their bond thrums quietly, feeling like the ache of a new muscle developing. Though angels don’t need sleep, their vessels can still feel the urge to drift off peacefully in a daydream. Moments stretch by in a comforting bliss, even as they avoid asking the hundred silent questions hanging between them.

“Lucifer,” she whispers, her voice slightly hoarse in the dimly lit room.

When she feels him look down at her she slowly sits up to face him, and strokes his light beard with her fingers.

“Please don’t make me kill you.”


	2. 'iithm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNNNNGST. I hope you're enjoying this story! I still have no idea where it's going, but researching lore has been very fun. Also, shoutout to one of my favorite video games Year Walk for introducing me to the kyrkogrim. If you love beautiful art, music, and horror then you might enjoy it :).
> 
> No smut here! Dean and Cas get a smooch on, and maybe there will be some smut between them in the future *eye emoji*

Mary Winchester could smack her boys upside their heads right now. “No, oh no. Absolutely not.”

They trade glances before Sam attempts a gentle approach. “Listen Mom, I know this sounds crazy-”

“This _is_ crazy. Summoning the Angel of Death? Do you have _any_ idea how many things could go wrong?”

“Things could and _do_ go wrong every day in our line of work. We’ve summoned archangels before, hell, we’ve even knocked on Lucifer’s cage!”

“And what, you think that you got lucky because something bad didn’t happen those times? We do stupid things, we _die_ , and then we come back. And now you want to summon the very thing we’ve been dodging? The thing that’s probably pissed at us? No one in this room should even be alive right now!”

Dean looks away from her to press his lips together, focusing on the glass of whiskey in his hand. He swallows and nods his head once to himself, reaffirming a thought he didn’t let himself vocalize. Castiel senses it and tries to read his thoughts, but doesn’t understand the emotion right away. His eyes narrow for a second, processing.

“Mary.” His eyebrows lift, deepening the lines in his forehead when their tired blue eyes meet. “Azrael is our only weapon against Lucifer. If we have her on our side, we would be putting him down for good. You’d be saving the world from endless suffering and get your revenge for what he’s done to your family. To John.”

Mary can feel her eyes water and she looks at the lamp set on the dining room table next to stacks of lore, holding tears back. When her eyes return to Castiel’s, his troubled expression softens. She looks at Sam, briefly wondering when he became the most expressive Winchester with his creased forehead and wet eyes. Mary offers him a small smile, which feels more like a muscle twitch. She then looks at Dean who still won’t look at her, staring into the amber alcohol he swirls in his hand. She tries to not let it bother her. _Things are complicated with Dean_ , she always tells herself.

“Okay,” she gives in. She knew they would summon the damn thing anyway - after all, they take after her. “What does it take to summon it?”

“We have all the ingredients here in the bunker except for one,” Sam answers as he flips through a couple of pages of the dense book in his lap. “Uh,” he looks skeptically at the page, “the skull of Muezza. She was apparently the prophet Muhammad’s favorite _cat_.”

He looks back at Mary with a tight smile and her mouth parts in confusion, a question forming on her face. Castiel adds, “Gabriel is tracking her down. We have good intel from Heaven on where the cat was buried.”

“O…kay,” Mary replies, still unsure if she heard that correctly the first time.

“In the meantime,” Dean’s rough voice bellows with forced smile. He picks up the half empty bottle of whiskey and tilts it toward the hallway. “I’ll be in my room.”

***

He can always sense Castiel without needing to hear doors open or the flutter of his wings. His body tells him when the angel is near; usually the temperature in the room drops a few degrees or Dean’s heart sinks to his stomach. One time it made him gassy, but he doesn’t bring that up.

“You know,” Dean says out loud before looking behind him, checking to make sure Cas was actually standing there. “She hates being here. I can see it all over her face when she thinks I’m not looking.”

Dean’s half-drunk, sitting on the edge of his bed and holding a family photograph. The angel slowly approaches and sits beside him, an arms-length away. His voice is soft. Patient. “Dean, what your mother is going through… it isn’t about you.”

The hunter huffs, “I know. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?” Cas asks like he can’t read Dean’s thoughts. _I’m not enough_ , he can hear him chant over and over as he finishes the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp.

Dean clears his throat. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Despite his instincts wanting to do otherwise, Cas lets it go. They sit in a comfortable silence, something Dean isn’t able to do with just anyone. Even on his best days with Sam he’d have a hundred thoughts he wanted to scream but held back - out of fear, love, even spite. But lulls with Cas are different. They’re lighter, innocent.

“It wasn’t just divine intervention that they shacked up. They were actually soulmates, weren’t they?” He doesn’t ask but states it, running the pad of his thumb across the faded smiles of his parents from 30 years ago. He catches Castiel’s nod from the corner of his eye and his crow’s feet deepen just as a bitter smile forms. “Like us?”

Castiel barely hears his hoarse voice but the question causes his grace to practically vibrate. The bond between the two men has always been needlessly complicated. Everyone knew something was there, but they avoided the topic, the weight of their respective guilt and self-loathing holding them back.

“Listen,” his voice breaks. “I know I don’t have, you know, _angel juice_ or whatever but Cas when I’m around you,” Dean trails off. Castiel realizes his green eyes are shining with tears, and his blood rushes to a boil. Dean inhales, shaking, but lets out a contented sound when Castiel finally closes the distance between them and presses their lips together.

The angel starts to let go of the kiss, unsure, before Dean grabs the lapels of his trench coat and deepens their movement, opening his mouth and gently tugging at his bottom lip with his teeth. Cas doesn’t know what to do at first, hands hovering just above the denim on Dean’s shoulders, but when Dean squeezes the back of his neck and whimpers, he finally understands. He kisses Dean back in earnest, basking in the human’s sigh when his hands slide down his back to push him closer.

It all ends too soon when Dean pulls away, breathing hard and pressing his forehead against the angel’s. _Come on don’t get whiskey dick now_ , he berates himself, knowing it’s not the booze making him feel overwhelmed. He’s not a stranger to spontaneous trysts in the middle of the night, like the busty bartenders in dive bar bathrooms or the messy blowjobs he’s given in the back of the Impala. But this is Castiel, _this is Cas_ , his thoughts race as his throat starts to tighten and his arms shake.

“I know, it’s okay,” Cas whispers against his lips, knowing Dean hates it when he responds to his thoughts but unable to stop himself this time. Dean doesn’t get mad - he nods, slightly out of breath and cursing his body for the sudden rush of panic. “We’re okay,” the angel soothes and runs his fingers through the ash brown strands.

He hears it when Dean confesses his love and wants to let out a breath that he’d been holding for what feels like centuries before sensing the follow-up threat. _If you say anything right now so help me Cas I will ward this bunker to keep you out forever_. And so, Castiel holds his tongue with a small smile.

***

Castiel empties a small bag of obsidian shards collected from an Israeli village into a black stone mortar. Dean looks over the angel’s shoulder with a wrinkled nose and scans the various ingredients next to a freshly smudged, unfamiliar sigil underneath a bowl. “What is this stuff?”

He begins to crush the shards with a matching pestle into a fine powder. “This is obsidian. According to Bobby’s research, we combine it with seven green lotus leaves and seven dates.”

“Dates? What, does the Angel of Death have chronic constipation?” Dean jokes with a self-satisfied grin, waiting for Castiel to laugh.

But instead Castiel slows his movement and tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

The hunter rolls his eyes to Sam, who’s shaking his head with pity at the terrible joke. “Oh come on,” Dean gruffs out. “None of you have a sense of humor!”

Castiel ignores the interaction, adding it to the growing list of human communication he doesn’t fully understand. _I’ll ask Google later_ , he decides. Sam takes over for the confused angel. “Ajwa dates are significant in Islamic history,” he reads from his laptop. “According to a _hadith_ , or sayings by the prophet Muhammad, ‘Whoever has seven Ajwa dates every morning will not be harmed on that day by poison or magic.’”

“It’s to protect the spell casters,” Castiel finishes for Sam, grinding the pestle and creating an unsettling, scraping noise that makes Dean shudder.

Dean picks up a jar of what looks like an abnormally large heart floating in blood-red, murky water. He sniffs the jar lid and immediately gags, almost dropping it to the floor but quickly catching it to settle it down on the altar’s surface. Sam yells “Dude be careful!” as his brother buries his face into the bend of his sleeved elbow. “Oh that’s _nasty_ ,” he coughs. “What the hell is that?!”

“The heart of a kyrkogrim, a spirit found in Swedish churches. Its heart can be used to tell the future.”

Dean stares at him with an expression that reads _why of course Cas, that’s such a fucking normal thing to say_. “Gotcha,” he decides to say instead after blinking twice. Mary, having been serious and quiet while gathering herbs for the spell, finds herself smiling for the first time that day. Ever since she and Castiel traded stories about adjusting to this world she began to see him more as a friend.

“And our guest of honor arrives!” Gabriel’s voice thunders dramatically as he enters the room with half of a cat skull displayed in his palm, as if on a silver platter.

***

Sam checks the angel trap underneath an area rug across from the altar for the fifth time. His phone buzzes with a text from Dean who had left the room with Mary to grab more ammo. “Just in case,” she urged. The text simply reads “ _Green_ ” and he forces a nervous breath out. “Okay, we’re set. We’ve got everything. Cas, you ready?”

Castiel faces the altar in the room Azrael first appeared in and rolls up his sleeves. He reaches into the viscous liquid to grab the rotted church grim heart, the putrid smell not affecting him or Gabriel, but slowly seeping into Sam’s nostrils. He gags, watching Castiel hold the heart over the crushed ingredients and chant, “ _Kull-oo nouf-sen_ ,” while digging his fingers in. Thick black globules pulse out and gradually drip onto the mix of skull dust and herbs. “ _Zah-eeq'ut_ -”

“That’s quite enough, Castiel.”

He stops mid-chant and his eyes shoot upward to Azrael’s vessel leaning against the door frame, arms crossed against her chest. Sam’s posture straightens and he quickly glances at Gabriel, daunted that the archangel actually looks caught off guard by her presence. _Shit shit shit_ , he panics.

“Your Arabic is dreadful,” she drawls and walks into the room, closer to the altar and the angel trap, but stops just before the rug. She looks down, then back up between Sam and Castiel. “An angel trap, really?” Azrael then looks over to the other archangel in the room, scanning Gabriel’s vessel from head-to-toe. “ _Jibreel_ ,” her voice is warm when she whispers his name, like recalling a fond memory. “I’m disappointed you didn’t come up with something smarter. Did you really think you could summon me with the skull of a dead cat?”

“You know,” Dean responds from behind her, standing in the door frame with his shotgun-wielding mother next to him. “We were pretty sure it wouldn’t work.” He strikes a matchstick and tosses it to the floor, engulfing a ring of holy oil that Azrael had walked into just shy from the angel trap hiding under the rug. “So we set this up just in case,” Dean winks.

Azrael growls when realizing they infused the holy oil with protective ingredients as an additional safeguard. Her eyes glow red like Lucifer’s, and a violent clap of thunder shakes the room. They nervously watch the shadows of her large wings unfurl, almost filling up the entirety of the room. She lets out a guttural scream, her voice now a roughened, unnatural gravel climbing out from the depths of her soul with a multitude of pitches that almost burst the humans’ ear drums. The floors and walls of the bunker quake, causing the jar that housed the rotting heart to rattle off the altar and shatter into a dozen pieces. The summoning bowl flies, just grazing Dean before smashing into the wall behind him.

Gabriel’s feigned horror drops to an irritated eye-roll. “Easy there, Pazuzu. We just wanted to talk and come to an agreement. Consider this a… necessary safety measure.”

A few unholy, chaotic seconds pass before she begins to calm down and return to her, well, _more_ human form. The red in her eyes fade back to a deep brown, but remain glaring into Gabriel’s. Dean breathes out a shaky laugh to break the tension before clearing his throat. “O-okay, adding _that_ to my list of top 5 weirdest boners.” He shrugs shamelessly when Sam and Castiel slowly look over at him, both expressing bewilderment.

When Azrael speaks again, her voice is the normal range belonging to her vessel. “Why should we talk when none of you have a shred of respect for me?”

Mary steps forward, “With all due respect, we do. Without you, the universe would be hell on Earth.” She hopes she sounds as sincere as she feels scared.

Azrael stares at Mary, tilting her head to signal amusement. “Three hundred and fifty two,” her voice cuts the room with razor-sharp precision. “That’s how many people died in order to balance your return, Mary.”

“Wh-what?”

“It was a massacre in Khan Yunis. But don’t worry, an international court will rule it a war crime 6 years from now, once the resulting civil war ends and _thousands_ more die, of course.”

“How could you tell her something like that?” Castiel barks when the Winchester matriarch shrinks back, horrified. “It’s Amara who brought her back, Mary didn’t have a say in that!”

“You’re missing the point, Castiel. Unnecessary, preventable deaths have to happen to keep this planet from exploding each time a Winchester can’t let go of another.” She shakes her head, eyes narrowing. “You know the worst part? You all feel this nauseating _guilt_ , despising the fact that you’re back from the dead, but then you die and start the cycle all over again.” She laughs, baffled.

Castiel approaches the ring of fire, staring down the trapped archangel, not blinking when the flames reflected in her pupils dance. “You should be grateful for every time the Winchesters save this world.”

“They do it by being okay with the deaths of everyone else,” Azrael spits back and her humor dries to a snarl. “You each expect everyone to give up their loved ones because you’ve deemed them monsters. But tell me something, how many times have _you_ been the monsters?”

The question carves, hushing the room. The phantom throb of the Mark of Cain pulses on Dean’s arm while Sam’s chest tenses where Death had returned his soul. Somewhere, in the very back of Castiel’s mind, he can still feel the souls of Purgatory stretching his vessel. 

“You humans have the gall to play judge, jury, and executioner on everything that’s different than you, until you can find one of us monsters to trap and use.”

Gabriel wets his lips when the realization hits, her rage starting to make more sense to him. “You saw him, didn’t you?”

She peels her eyes away to look at the younger archangel but doesn’t answer.

He whistles low. “Wow, one lap on the D-train and you’re already in cahoots?” When her brows pinch with an unasked question, Gabriel shakes his head and chuckles. “Come on Azrael, you sound just like him.”

“Don’t compare me to him.”

“Hit a nerve?” Gabriel taunts as he circles the fire, hands behind his back. His voice challenges, “So what, did you find true everlasting love? Too soft to do the _one job_ you’re destined to do?”

When she remains silent, Dean prods. “Are you really saying that you’d choose the _Devil_ over everything that God created? You angels are supposed to protect humans, not screw us over!”

“I get it,” Mary’s voice is quiet at first, but crystallizes when they all turn to look at her. “You just wanted to be left alone. You’ve only had to rely on yourself and then suddenly you’re dragged into everyone else’s mess.”

The fragmented inner thoughts of Sam and Dean rush through their respective bondmates, choruses of _why can’t you just… we didn’t know… how can you say… I’m not enough I’m not enough I’m not enough_.

“It’s not fair,” she continues, anger spiking somewhat, “but this isn’t about what _you_ want or what _we_ want. It’s about saving billions!” Azrael’s eyes lift from staring into the burning holy oil to look at Mary. The woman’s expression softens in a desperate plea, “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be destined to kill your soulmate, but you know what he’ll do if we don’t stop him. Please, will you help us?”

Azrael shifts her gaze to Gabriel, who raises his brows. After a pause, she purses her lips and reluctantly nods. She takes a deep breath, audibly letting it out. “First, you will let me out of this trap and get me a drink.”


	3. Madh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters worry about Azrael's deepening bond with Lucifer, and a mutiny forms in Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: Gabriel/Sam (rough), Lucifer/Azrael (blowjob, anal play, praise kink)

Dagon walks toward the throne, high heels clicking on the dirty concrete as she carefully navigates the stench of exploded demon souls thick in the air. Her yellow eyes find a seated Lucifer looking away, deep in thought. “My Lord,” she tries to keep her voice even but can’t help the flirty rasp.

He doesn’t acknowledge her and stares at a faraway crack in the wall where a brick should be. He hears Dagon say the word that instinctively makes his eyes flash red - _Winchester_. His hands begin to shake as he replays the last time his grip squeezed Dean’s throat, wishing he could have watched his miserable life fade out breathlessly. He wanted to dig his nails deep into the hunter’s jugular, cherishing the sound of muscle ripping and blood gurgling through clenched teeth. But he couldn’t do it back then, not to Sam. _Sam, who has Azrael_ , he reminds himself.

Lucifer realizes he’s holding a breath and slowly pushes it out, forcing his eyes to close. He recalls her smell, her _taste_. A shudder waves through him, a remarkable calm follows it. Her lips are a fresh memory from their last kiss before she asked him to leave; he can’t remember the last time anyone had _asked_ him to do anything, instead of just casting him aside like an abomination, an _insect_.

Dagon’s smoky voice interrupts his thoughts, “My Lord, you know that I would do anything to please you.”

His eyes open to meet her painted-red mouth and rake upward. He fixes onto her leer, leaning forward. “Anything?”

She moves closer to him, emphasizing the sway in her hips. Her whisper is raw with lust, “ _Anything_.”

The tip of his tongue peeks out to run underneath his two front teeth, a grin captivating his face when he brazenly glances at her lips again. “Find a way into the Winchester’s bunker,” he says with a husky voice, savoring how her breath shallows in response, “or I will pour boiling holy water down your throat until your insides liquefy.”

Dagon’s expression drops and she takes a step back, masking the fright pulsing through her veins by bowing her head. She doesn’t need to look up to know that his playful smile changed to an embittered scowl. “O-of course, my Lord,” she stutters before hurrying out.

When she’s far enough away from him she paces in an empty hallway, running a hand through her thick waves in frustration. She shuts her eyes tightly, rumbling profanities under her breath.

She hears a familiar voice behind her, “Still getting rejected, darling?”

Dagon rolls her eyes open to see a smirking Crowley a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his black peacoat. “Still being Lucifer’s little _pet_?” She spits, venom seething through the question.

“And what does that make _you_?” Crowley knows better than to demean a Prince of Hell, but takes a quiet delight in her responding growl.

“Tough talk coming from the _former_ King of Hell. Tell me Crowley, are you back to petty soul acquisitions from desperate humans?”

“Oh please, that’s all in the past. Personal development plans, and all that.” He smirks, amused when she rolls her eyes again. “I’m actually building an arsenal of the most powerful weapons known in history, love.”

Dagon crosses her arms against her chest, “You can only go so far with those weapons before Lucifer throws you back into your kennel. I’m surprised he even let you out in the first place.”

“Ah yes, our fearless leader who keeps rejecting every one of your extremely subtle come-ons.” When she uncrosses her arms and steps forward with balled fists, Crowley raises his hands up. “Now, now. If _I_ was still the King of Hell I couldn’t possibly resist you. _You_ , the most powerful demon in Hell who could make the universe kneel and beg for mercy. Lucifer is a complete fool to treat you the way he does.”

He notices her shoulders relax, a faint lift adorning her red lips. _Hook_ , he thinks.

“Lucifer’s got his sweetheart distracting him right now. It makes him weak. _Pathetic_ , really. But worst of all it puts all of Hell in danger. How can we trust that he’s got Hell’s best interest when he’s slaughtering demons left and right over some _crush_?”

Dagon looks away, lips pursed in frustration and the heel of her shoe tapping impatiently.

He steps forward. “What if I told you that you would be the Queen of Hell if I was to take back the throne?”

Her eyes narrow, “And how would you do that?”

A hint of mischief glimmers in his eyes when he raises a brow. “The only one who can kill Lucifer is his beloved Azrael, but she needs a weapon. A battleaxe, specifically.” _Line_.

“How do you know this?”

“It’s my job to know everything, darling.” He crooks his finger, beckoning the Prince of Hell to follow him. When they reach locked double doors, he fishes a bulky skeleton key from his breast pocket, turning it until a loud _click_ echoes.

The armory is dark, lit only by torches in each corner. Dagon trails behind Crowley who walks with purpose while she slows to scan the tarnished spears, cracked bows, and stained swords on display. She’d only been to this wing of Hell once before to pick up the Lance of Michael, a gift to her brother Ramiel; he barely seemed grateful, just spat chewing tobacco by her feet.

When Crowley abruptly stops, she almost bumps into him and loses her train of thought. She’s not sure when he picked up the giant battleaxe in his two hands, standing almost taller than him. It even _looks_ ominous with its deep black metal, shiny like brand new, and accented with glowing blood-red runes. Dagon doesn’t recognize the symbols, but that unmistakeable red glow matches Lucifer’s brilliance.

He answers the question written on her face, “This belongs to Dhul-Qarnayn, who was entrusted by God to craft a weapon that would kill _all_ things apocalyptic.”

She reaches her hand out and the magic of the battleaxe thrums, sparking a cold tremor up her back. She doesn’t realize how heavy her voice sounds until she asks, “Like Lucifer?”

“ _Precisely_ like Lucifer. What do you say we find ourselves an Angel of Death who would know how to use it?”

Dagon slowly bares her teeth in a sinister grin, and Crowley hums in content. _Sinker_.

***

It takes a while to convince Dean to let Azrael out of the trap. He follows her when she roams the bunker, his heavy boots echoing hers, the grip of an angel blade warm in his fist. He knows she can’t die, but he’s never met a creature that couldn’t feel pain or bleed - not even _God_.

Her fingertips run across their supernatural inventory, compiling a layer of dust from books, jars, and almost a katana before Dean cleared his throat as a warning. “You got me, Winchester,” she says with a flat voice. “This whole time when I could’ve killed you with a single thought I was really just waiting to find the perfect weapon.”

She circles back to the dining room table, sitting across Sam while Mary and Castiel go through research at opposite ends. In a gesture of good faith she told the Winchesters and their two angels about the weapon needed to kill Lucifer, but kept its location to herself. Her heart plunges into her guts each time she considers the plan, desperate for any other possibility.

Azrael props her boots up like when she first met the group, crossing her legs at the ankle and making herself comfortable. She frowns into a glass of cabernet for a moment while weighing the decision ahead of her, the bitter ruby liquid staring back. A thin noise breaks her concentration and she looks around, realizing no one else heard it. For some reason, she can’t help but squint at Sam who was reading a translation of the Quran in his hands.

After a few seconds he feels the scrutiny of her gaze and warmth rises in his cheeks. The lump in his neck bobs and despite swallowing, his throat instantly dries again. “W-What?”

“Nothing, just…” she trails off, scrunching her nose, “Do you _feel_ that?” There’s a heavy pause and Sam looks at Mary and Castiel who put their research down, briefly exchanging confused looks. His eyebrows raise in alarm, nostrils flaring as he grips the wooden arms of his seat. She nods, “Yeah, _that_.”

A flap of wings signal Gabriel is in the room, and he rushes over to stand behind Sam, preparing to flare his wings to warn Azrael, but unsure what to expect. “What _is_ that, what are you doing to me?!” Sam tenses up in his chair and Dean grips one of his shoulders, “Sammy, _hey_!” The older brother barks at the archangel, “What the fuck are you doing to him?!”

“I’m not doing anything. It’s _us_ doing this, Sam.” Her eyes brighten with a realization, “We’re connected.”

When it’s clear that she’s not trying to hurt him, he lets his muscles relax. He releases his grip on the chair and raises his hands with a nod to his family and soulmate, _I’m okay_ , he thinks he says out loud. Gabriel squeezes his shoulder once, and Sam returns the gesture when his hand reaches behind the seat to grasp the back of his archangel’s leg.

Sam finds his voice again. “Connected? Like, a _bond_?” He grimaces at how the words fumbled out when he feels Gabriel’s posture tense.

She waves a dismissive hand like the suggestion was absurd, “No, not a bond. Not a _true_ bond anyway.” She looks at their bewilderment, trying to find the right words. “I feel this immense amount of admiration, maybe even _trust_ for you. But I don’t feel this _urge_ , you know, that _rush_ that comes from a bond that would make me want to protect you. And I certainly feel no desire to fuck you, either.”

“ _Hey_!” Three distinct voices yell in synchronization - Mary’s, Dean’s, and Gabe’s - all protective of the younger Winchester, startling him.

Castiel clears his throat, “Well, Sam _was_ Lucifer’s true vessel. It’s possible that whatever it is you’re feeling is merely a leftover impression of some kind that would make you-”

“Okay you know what that’s _enough_.” Dean interrupts, rubbing a hand down his face. His voice comes out drained and taut. “I don’t want to hear one more fuckin’ word about _angels_ or _archangels_ or _vessels_ or _connections_.” He points a finger at Azrael, “Now I get it, okay? I know this isn’t what you signed up for but _newsflash, princess_ no one did! So you better help us find this Douche Qar-whoever’s axe or so help me God I will find a way to kill Lucifer myself.” 

The bunker’s temperature dips to match Azrael’s even timber, “If you lay a hand on Lucifer I will rip it right off your arm, Dean.” A crushing silence heavies the air in the room, like a freeze-frame moment.

Castiel tells himself to feel outrage or rush to protect Dean, but instead he leads the hunter out of the dining room by his arm. Gabriel looks at Azrael, his eyebrows raised upward into a plea. It’s a rare move by the masquerading Trickster. She knows he’s looking out for Sam and exhales, irritated, returning the bunker’s temperature to normal. “I apologize for my outburst,” she utters, looking into the glass of wine again.

Sam clears his throat out of habit, a nervous tick, and tries to concentrate on reading, his thumb nervously flicking the top corner of each page he turns. A pit forms at the bottom of his stomach.

***

Gabriel doesn’t want it slow tonight. He whines in frustration when Sam inches into him carefully, too carefully, and angles his hips up to feel more. Deeper, rougher, _more_. An unexpected grunt escapes the back of Sam’s throat, and he lets out a shaking breath against the archangel’s nape. His hole swallows greedily and clenches around Sam, causing the larger man’s hands to land on Gabriel’s narrow hips for balance. “Gabe, _fuck_.”

Gabriel’s hips jerk higher, pressing the side of his face into the mattress, trying to feel all of Sam. He gasps out a curse into the bed when Sam pulls back, not giving him what he wants. “Just _fuck_ me, Sam. _Please_ ,” he whimpers in a higher pitch.

Sam leans forward, running the tip of his tongue up the shell of his ear, “You impatient tonight, babe?” He whispers and nips his ear as his rough hands glide up the slick skin of Gabriel’s back. Sam’s grip curls and tugs at the chestnut locks and he drives his hips forward, stuffing him in a smooth thrust.

Gabriel cries out, making Sam clamp his other hand over his mouth. Usually he doesn't care if Dean hears, but Mary had just started living with her sons again after taking time for herself, and Sam didn’t want to scare her off with his boyfriend’s obnoxious sex noises. Gabriel senses the thought pass, and pants out a chuckle muffled by the giant hand shutting him up. Sam’s fingers squeeze his jaw, a warning to _be quiet_.

The archangel is unbearably tight around Sam’s cock and a flush spreads through the Winchester, splattering his chest a rosy pink that creeps up his throat. Sweat droplets run down his temples when Gabriel groans through clenched teeth and grinds back, fucking himself. For a moment Sam feels like if he takes a breath he’ll finish too soon, and he slides his cock out, rubbing the length between Gabriel’s ass cheeks.

Sam smiles to himself when a broken wail vibrates against his hand. He waits for Gabriel’s breath to even, moving his clenched fist away from his hair and scratching a fingernail down his spine. When his finger reaches the dip of Gabriel’s tailbone, his hand moves away to grasp the base of his cock, lining the head up with his angel’s slick hole.

He chokes back a sob - _finally_ Sam fucks him hard and fast, the sound of their skin slapping and the bed creaking giving them away to anyone who would walk by the closed room. Gabriel wants that; he wants everyone to know, for _Azrael_ to know that Sam belongs to _him_ , and if Sam wasn’t so overwhelmed by trying to stave off his rushed orgasm he would’ve heard that.

Gabriel grabs his own cock and tugs over and over as Sam growls into his ear how _close_ he is, how _good_ Gabriel feels, how _fucking hot_ his little angel’s ass looks when it’s bouncing off his dick. They come shortly after that, Sam filling him the archangel as he spills on the bed sheets.

The air from Sam’s desk fan feels like an ice cold breeze against their heated skin when they part, kissing each other sloppily and sighing in content. Gabriel finds his place when he rests his head against the tattooed symbol on Sam’s chest, hearing the hunter’s heart beat slow to a soothing rhythm. He closes his eyes tightly and realizes Sam won’t let this one go.

“So, what was _that_ about?”

“Hmm? This is hardly the first time you’ve been rough with me.” Gabriel hears Sam think _you know what I mean_ without needing to say it out loud, and groans.

Sam ruffles the back of the archangel’s hair, kissing the top of his head. He wants to let it go, to drift off into a coma-like nap and not think about the fact that the fucking _Angel of Death_ just left their bunker, probably to sell them out to Lucifer and kickstart another apocalypse. _Wait_. Sam looks down at Gabriel, “This was about the whole bond talk, wasn’t it?”

Gabriel grumbles to himself.

“Gabe, _hey_.” He tilts the angel’s chin up toward him, “You’re my soulmate. I’m _yours_. I love you more than I can put into words. I _know_ you feel that.” He smiles when Gabriel’s grace washes over both their bodies, a calming effect, his way of stabilizing the never ending chaos they’ve always gone through. “Lucifer doesn’t need me as his vessel anymore. I could never leave you like that.”

It’s not like Gabriel to not shoot back a witty retort, but when he’s fucked out and buzzing with euphoria, all he can do is squeeze Sam’s bicep and purr out a serene noise.

A few moments pass with the pads of Sam’s fingers massaging Gabriel’s scalp, pulling lightly on his strands when combing through his hair. “Do you think she’ll do it? Kill Lucifer?”

When Gabriel doesn’t answer, Sam knows to worry.

***

Once she leaves the bunker and its wards, Azrael finds Lucifer in the depths of Hell. She told the hunters she wouldn’t go see him, but moments later she’s bursting through locked doors and throwing demons out of her way. He’s alone in the throne room, having just eviscerated another demon’s soul for not delivering better news on her whereabouts.

Lucifer’s eyes flash red when he hears the weight of booted feet approaching him, but when his grace trembles with ache, he knows it’s not Dagon this time. He looks away from the grimy floor to see Azrael standing at the doors, and although every instinct tells him to scream until one of them bursts into flames, he instead sighs in relief. Then laughs.

He stands, ignoring every cell that wants to run to her, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “You’ve been with the Winchesters,” his smile fades and he hisses, “I can _smell_ them.”

“They trapped me.”

“And you’re free because you made a deal, presumably to kill me?” When she doesn’t respond his nerves ablaze, as if doused in holy fire. “Well go ahead, Azrael. Do what everyone has wanted to do. Rid humanity of its _worst_ stain.”

Azrael’s shoulders droop, defeated, and when he sees the look of pity on her facehe wants to spit. “Lucifer-”

“Do it!” He yells, hatred boiling in his chest.

She raises her hand, eyes flaming red, and Lucifer feels his breath rip out of his body. A gust pushes him back to his throne, sitting him upright as the double doors behind Azrael slam shut and shake the walls.

His eyes narrow when she walks toward him, “Say it, _darling_. Tell me what you _really_ think of me. Tell me how disgusted you are by how all the things I’ve done, all the bodies you’ve mopped up-” He suddenly yelps when the back of his head thuds against the throne.

Azrael’s face is inches away from his and their noses barely graze. Her voice slithers into his ear, hot and precise, “I think that you can be a reckless, arrogant, poisonous _brat_.” Lucifer can't help but stare at her full lips as her grace mimics the feeling of her tongue dipping into his ear. Her powers have him pinned down to the throne, and he mewls an involuntary moan. She whispers, “but I’ve seen what you’re capable of, and I know you want to be so _good_ for me, Lucifer. You're always so responsive,” her grace nips his lobe, “so eager, so _obedient_. You don’t want to admit how much love pours out of you.”

His breath catches in the back of his throat, and a blush dusts the apples of his cheeks. He gasps when she yanks his hair back and his cock hardens, strained in his jeans. He lets out an even louder noise when she brushes her lips against his then pulls away to sink to her knees with a smirk. “You know,” her voice singsongs as her palms smooth down his covered thighs, tugging to pull the denim off of him. “I thought you were the most beautiful creature in the world when you were created. No vessel could do you justice, but I have to admit _Luci_ , I think about your baby blue eyes every passing second.”

Lucifer growls and wants to lash out as her grace tries to still him, _tame_ him. She raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to say stop. But instead he swallows hard and pleads, allowing this strange new feeling of devotion flood his senses as his cock is enveloped by the warmth of her mouth. He holds back a strangled noise when she moans around him, her tongue dragging up a thick vein and swirling around his head.

She lets him thrust up into her hollowing cheeks, eyes locked into his as he pants and she drools. She abruptly pulls off with a pop, imprinting the small protesting whine that leaves his lips to her memories. “My pretty, _pretty_ boy,” she hums. He feels one of her fingers trail down to his perineum to the pool of spit gathering around his hole. “I want to see you let go, Luci.” He almost howls when she circles his entrance and probes.

Azrael’s finger pushes into him and curls, forcing a tearing a chorus of moans to echo off the brick walls of the room. Lucifer’s fingers dig into his chair, writhing under her hold as the head of his cock hits the back of her throat. She thrusts a second finger into his tight hole, humming. He almost sobs, gritting his teeth when she pumps a spot inside him that causes his thighs to shake. Through his frenzy he can hear her thoughts, the torrent of praise flowing out - _gorgeous, perfect, beautiful_ \-  and his orgasm rips through his body, come spurting down her throat.

Her grace releases him and he instantly lurches forward to bring her up in his lap, breathing hard against her neck as she strokes his hair. She can’t make out what he’s trying to say, only picking up a soft mussitation trailing down her throat as he peels off her jacket.

He finally speaks, voice heavy with lust, “You _will_ stay with me.”

She knows the Winchesters would despise her if they knew that she responded by lowering her hips to grind against Lucifer’s and run her teeth down his jawline. “ _Yes_.”


End file.
